


Not Who He Says He Is

by airspaniel



Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: Bodyswap, Dubious Consent, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-06-16
Updated: 2007-06-16
Packaged: 2017-10-21 09:04:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/223450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/airspaniel/pseuds/airspaniel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sylar has an interesting new ability, and Mohinder's apartment is a magnet for dead men.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Who He Says He Is

Mohinder sighed as he unlocked the door to his apartment. He missed Molly already, though she had only been gone an hour, and he wasn't quite sure how he would make it through the whole summer without her. She had begged and begged to visit Micah and his parents in Las Vegas, and he had begged and begged his parents, and who were grown-ups to stand in the way of such persuasive children? It was good for her to have a friend, especially one as gifted as she was, and Mohinder would never have dreamed of refusing her such a reasonable request. Even if he would be a little lonely without her.

Besides, he reflected; taking off his shoes, it was good to have the place to himself again. He felt his way to the couch without turning on the light and stretched out, suddenly exhausted. It had been a very long day. He lay there, wavering on the edge of sleep, when a harsh whisper and hot breath in his ear snapped his eyes open.

"Hello, Mohinder. Long time no see."

He tried to sit up and couldn't, held on his back by an invisible force. A familiar force.

"You…" he gasped. "You're dead!"

Sylar folded his arms on the back of the couch and rested his chin on them, staring intensely at the prone man beneath him. The corners of his mouth turned upwards, but there was no mirth in his dark eyes. "Now that's not very nice," he chided. "You could have at least said hello. Maybe asked how I was doing." He slid around the couch, hands idly caressing dark leather, to nonchalantly perch on the armrest at Mohinder's feet. "You know, a lot has happened since the last time you saw me."

Panic gripped Mohinder's chest and he struggled to breathe. "You died! I – I saw you. The sword…"

His words were cut off by an invisible hand at his throat. Sylar leaned close over his captive, hands on either side of the smaller man's waist. "Did you see my corpse, Suresh?" he spat. "Did you see them drag my broken, bleeding body away?" He pulled back, abruptly. "No, you didn't. You were too entranced by that exploding pretty boy and his oh-so-noble brother to even notice I was gone." He sat, this time on the edge of the couch, leaning back against the cushions as if Mohinder wasn't even there, using his chest as an armrest. "You were happy to believe I was dead; believe that good had triumphed over evil and the world was safe again. And I let you believe that, because it was convenient for me to do so. After all, who goes looking for a dead man?" He laughed like razorblades. "I was free again, in a way." Sylar fixed Mohinder with another penetrating stare. "But listen to me going on. I'm sure you care _so_ much."

The pressure on his throat eased, and Mohinder found he could speak again. "She's not here!" he cried. "You'll never get your hands on her."

Sylar cocked his head in mock-confusion. "Who? Dear, sweet Molly?" he laughed again, softer this time. "I know she isn't here. I've been here for hours. By the way, your milk's gone bad." He rose, infuriatingly casual, and calmly paced the length of the room. "I was going to make some tea, but… y'know. Bad memories."

Mohinder made a noise somewhere between laughing and coughing. "So kill me, then. I won't give you anything."

"Kill you?" Sylar grinned, predatorily. "Hardly. I have better plans than that. At least, for now." Mohinder's hands clenched reflexively against the leather as his captor drew close. His eyes fell shut as knees straddled his hips, and arms folded across his chest, pushing him even further into the upholstery. Sylar's voice was felt more than heard, a smug, deep vibration through his torso. "I might kill you later, Mohinder. In fact, I'm sure I will. But right now, I need you alive." With that, he kissed the trapped man fully on the lips.

Mohinder's eyes flew open in shock. _Surely not…_ But there was a hot mouth on his, and somewhere under the fear and revulsion and anger, he remembered Zane. Despite his mind's protestations, he felt the urge to return the kiss, as twisted and disturbed as it was. Sylar buried a hand in his hair and pulled his head back, and there was a pressure at his jaw, forcing his mouth open. The kiss deepened, and he responded involuntarily. For a dizzying moment the world seemed to spin. He closed his eyes against the disorientation, and the kiss ended as suddenly as it had begun.

"God, I'm heavy," Mohinder heard his own voice say. "Get off already." He was thrown back against the wall and held there, aware that something was horribly wrong. He opened his eyes slowly, and slammed them shut again when he saw _himself_ rise from the couch and cross the room. It was an illusion, a hallucination, he was still disoriented… _anything_ made more sense than this.

"You can open your eyes, Mohinder," his own voice said, a little lighter and higher than he was used to hearing it in his head. "Actually, I guess you're Sylar now. Pretty neat trick, huh?"  
He opened his eyes. It was like looking in a strange mirror, seeing his own features twisted in a dark smirk. Mohinder looked down at the body he now possessed, hands pale against black clothes.

"How… How did you do this?" The voice he spoke with was unaccented, unfamiliar, reverberating in his head, his chest.

Sylar laughed, _his_ face lighting up like a child who just learned a magic trick. "This? Oh, I got this from a nice little lady in Abilene. Like I said, a lot has happened since the last time you saw me."

Mohinder's (Sylar's? This was too surreal...) mouth went dry, and he swallowed ineffectually. He felt nauseous. "So, what are you going to do now?"

Sylar stalked toward him, aggressive strides that were so uncharacteristic of the body he inhabited. Mohinder shuddered in his new skin, feeling unspeakably violated. With an absent flick of long, dark fingers, he was thrown into the armchair and trapped there.

"Now we wait for our little girl to come home." Sylar purred, sitting back down on the couch. He put his feet up, and considered his new hands. "And I'm a dead man, Mohinder. I have all the time in the world."

\-----

Weeks passed like this, Mohinder a prisoner in his own apartment; in flesh not his own, watching helplessly as Sylar lived his life. It made him sick, the way Sylar was so at home in his space, his body. The man had called the university and canceled Mohinder's lectures indefinitely, citing "an unfortunate family incident that required his immediate and undivided attention." Sometimes he flipped absent-mindedly through the papers on the doctor's desk, skimming notes and textbooks with no sign of real interest. Most of the time he watched television. Waiting.

Mohinder sat unmoving in the armchair in the corner. He often had the ability to move, now that Sylar had acknowledged he wouldn't try to run. But he didn't have the desire. Where would he go if he did escape? Who could he possibly tell? Everyone he could think of would kill him before he opened his mouth. He was Sylar now, by all appearances. And he was supposed to be dead. So better off to stay and wait, and do his best to protect Molly when she returned. He wondered if she would be able to see his true identity with her ability. He hoped she would. The alternative was unbearable. So he sat, waiting and terrified, occasional tears forming in unfamiliar eyes.

When this happened Sylar would look at him with his own eyes, face a strange mixture of pity, sorrow and disgust, and he would leave the room, abandoning the sight of his former shell in agony. And Mohinder would wonder what the other man was thinking.

\-----

It was late in the evening when the doorbell rang, making Mohinder jump a little in his seat. It couldn't be Molly, unless something had gone terribly wrong. Even Sylar seemed surprised, looking up from a rerun of some medical drama and crossing quietly to the door.

"Suresh?" a voice called from the hall. A wide grin broke over Mohinder's face as Sylar realized who the visitor was. Oh, _this_ was just too good. He stretched a hand back in the doctor's direction, pinning him in the chair once more. Mohinder fought to make a noise and couldn't; couldn't move, couldn't even close his eyes as Sylar bent forward to look through the peephole, beaming like a kid on Christmas morning.

There was a tentative knock, and the voice called out again, more hesitant this time. "Mohinder? Are you there?" And then the impossible: "It's Peter. Peter Petrelli."

Mohinder's heart pounded in Sylar's chest. He had survived! It was a miracle. But why was he here? He screamed in his head for Peter to run, that Sylar was here; for godsakes get away! But as Sylar opened the door with trembling brown hands, he saw his thoughts had not been heard. Peter stood in the doorway, clothes torn and dirty, faded bruises, burns and lacerations marring his once fair skin. Mohinder was confused. Why couldn't he heal himself?

Peter looked up, tortured brown eyes meeting Mohinder's, not realizing it was his old nemesis who smiled at him, breathless, before pulling him into a disbelieving hug.

"Peter!" he exclaimed, holding the younger man by the shoulders. "I... We... I thought you were dead! I saw you..." His acting was impeccable, bending Mohinder's voice into the perfect blend of elation and wonder. Mohinder fought nausea, and wished he could close his eyes. Sylar's eyes. Whatever he was looking through. He didn't want to see this. But he had no choice, as Sylar invited Peter in and made him sit; offered him something to drink. A gross parody of hospitality. He was thankful for the darkness hiding him in the corner. At least Peter wouldn't try to kill him right away.

\-----

The glass of ice water shook uncontrollably in Peter's hands. With gentle fingers that weren't his own, Sylar lifted the glass and placed it on the floor. He sat straddling a kitchen chair, arms rested lightly on the back, with hands folded in front of him. His imitation was absolutely perfect. Peter didn't suspect a thing, eyes lowered, staring at the ground. His hair was shorter, but still managed to fall in his face.

"I'm sorry, I didn't know where else to go." He wrung his hands nervously. Sylar put a hand on his to stop him.

"It's all right, Peter. I... I'm just surprised, is all." his mouth turned up in a strange little smile. "I never thought I'd see you again."

In his corner, Mohinder was glad he couldn't make a sound. He choked as Sylar said exactly what he would have, in exactly the same way. "But what about your family? Surely they would be overjoyed to know you were alive."

Peter stared at the warm hand that covered his own. "Nathan is dead, and it's all my fault." He laughed, a sharp, sad sound. "I think I'm the last person my mother wants to see right now. And I haven't exactly been in control since I... Well, since I blew up." He took Mohinder's hand (Sylar's hand. In the corner, Mohinder shivered.) and held it tightly between his own. He lifted his face, and the look in his eyes was heartbreaking. "I just thought maybe you could help me."

Sylar reached out his other hand to squeeze Peter's shoulder reassuringly. He could hear his captive's heart racing across the apartment, blood pounding in... jealousy? This was going to be even more fun than he had expected. And this was not at all what he had expected, but he prided himself on his ability to improvise.

Peter, misinterpreting the silence, smiled halfheartedly and started to stand up. "I'm sorry, I know it's a lot to ask. I should just..." Deceptively strong fingers clutched him tighter. When he looked back at those dark eyes, their expression was so intense that he felt like the wind had been knocked out of him.

"Peter," Sylar began, leaning earnestly into the younger man. "If there is anything I can do to help you, I will. Anything that is within my power to do." He rose, slowly, keeping his grip on Peter's shoulder. Peter stood with him; stepped closer. In his shadowy hiding place, Mohinder held his breath.

Sylar heard this, and smiled. He ran soft fingers along Peter's cheek, brushing the errant hair out of his face. "I'll help you, Peter." He sighed. "God, I'm just so glad you're alive."

It had the desired effect. Peter fell into his arms, face flushed, lips pressing to lips in a tentative kiss. For a moment, Mohinder was afraid that when he pulled away, Sylar would have switched again, and those kind brown eyes would now be those of a killer. But no, it was a just a kiss. And not just a kiss, as the two men moved against each other, increasingly passionate in their actions. He watched his body arch against Peter, watched his hands wander down that slender frame, and his mouth dominate the younger man, who moaned and leaned into his touch. Despite himself he was aroused, and again was glad he couldn't move. His face burned with shame, his thoughts echoing in his head. Sylar's head. _Don't…_

"Mohinder, I…" Peter breathed, pulling away the slightest bit. His voice was shaky, uncertain. "Don't what?"

Sylar panted, confused. "What?" He ran his fingers through thick dark locks, drawing the other man close again.

"You thought it. At least, I thought you..." Peter whispered, their foreheads resting against each other. "Don't what, Mohinder?"

Sylar tightened his grip. He cast a dangerous look towards his paralyzed doctor. Familiar eyes stared Mohinder down, daring him to do that again. Anything he might've said, however, was hushed into a soft growl, as Peter began to nibble the sensitive flesh of his neck. He kept eye contact with the man in his body, voice barely a whisper. "Don't stop, Peter. Don't stop."

Fingers moved to the buttons on his orange linen shirt. Peter was single-minded in his task, exposing as much burnt caramel skin as he could, as Sylar writhed in his arms, in Mohinder's body, making Peter believe he was in control. Elegant hands divested Peter of his own shirt, dark skin trailing over pale ribs as they fell back towards the couch.

Trapped in his own private Hell, Mohinder could do nothing but stare at the couple on _his_ couch, tongues tangling, hips grinding, voices a meaningless susurrus of sighs and gasps. This body was foreign to him; arousal a heavier, headier experience. Or perhaps that was just the reaction to seeing something he had so long desired. Seeing, but nothing else. The man he had dreamed of, secretly, since the first time their eyes had met in a rear-view mirror, was now here; in his arms. Peter’s eyes were dark and overwhelming, as he nipped and licked Mohinder’s fingers, kissing and biting the sensitive palm, sucking hard at the pulse of his wrist. But they were no longer his hands, his wrists; and he could touch nothing but the carved wood of the armrests.

Sylar laughed as Peter thrust against him, eyes wild with lust. He couldn't decide which was more entertaining, his once nemesis begging for his touch, or the ragged breathing of his prisoner, powerless and wanting in the darkness. Peter laughed as well, ascribing a different meaning to the sound, and his delicate fingers found the buttons on the other man's fly, pulling tight denim over slim hips. Before the jeans could be completely removed, Sylar attacked with cat-like grace, pinning the young, breathless man against the arm of the couch. This change in position gave Mohinder a much better view of Peter’s body, as the man in his own body stripped him slowly. The pale skin of long legs was revealed, inch by torturous inch, violet bruises only enhancing the twisted, erotic effect of the whole ordeal. Peter wound his fingers in dark curls, pulling his assailant in for another deep kiss. A calculated hand worked its way between their bodies, fingers wrapping confidently around Peter’s shaft; forcing him to break the kiss, moaning shamelessly. As he licked a slow path down the younger man’s torso, keeping a teasing rhythm with his hand, Sylar reached out with his mind and…

Mohinder gasped as a feather-light touch brushed against his groin, barely-there strokes moving in time with the hand on Peter’s dick. He strained forward against his invisible bonds, needing more contact, but he was held fast. His eyes watered helplessly with the sensation, unable to blink, unable to tear his eyes from the delicious sight of his own lips moving slowly down Peter’s chest, his stomach, planting delicate kisses along his lower stomach. His hipbones. His…

With a long, deliberate lick to the underside, Sylar took Peter’s cock into his mouth. Mohinder’s mouth. The man in the corner groaned silently as the pressure against him increased, invisible tendrils of energy mimicking the movements of a deft tongue. Sliding over and up, circling the tip, the feeling of a hot mouth tightening over his throbbing erection. On the couch, Peter screamed and threw his head back over the armrest, completely surrendering to sensation. He bucked uncontrollably into the other man’s mouth, and Sylar rode the assault, dark fingers digging into sharp hipbones hard enough to leave marks. Soft thumbprint bruises joining the so many others that colored his fair skin. Across the room, hips twitched in tandem, desperate for more, harder, _faster_ , and thick brows knitted in a painful expression as Mohinder was denied, forced to take only what he was given.

It was really too easy, Sylar thought, as his once-nemesis scrabbled at brown shoulders, fingers clutching at his hair, his neck, the dark stubble along his jawline, holding him in place, but not forcing. Peter was so gentle, so polite, even while he was being ravished. If he only knew what was _really_ going on. And his dear professor, who would be writhing if he could, every molecule of his being consumed with lust. Sylar could hear it in his heart, his breath, the sweat breaking out on the body that he once called his own. It was exhilarating to have such total control. He increased the pace and the pressure for both of them, hands moving to caress Peter’s balls, his shaft, telekinetic force exactly replicating the experience for his captive.

They came at the same time, Peter gasping Mohinder’s name as the man above him sucked him clean. Mohinder had no choice but to be silent as he panted, broken and ashamed. Sylar smiled as he licked swollen lips, grinning wickedly at the debauched man beneath him. Peter recovered slowly, feeling for his lover like a blind man, and pressing a tender kiss to that dark red mouth.

“Oh god,” he panted, “oh god, you…”

Elegant hands smoothed his hair back, coming to rest at the back of his neck. “It’s okay, Peter. It’s all right.” Mindless words to soothe, to slow the heartbeat pounding deafeningly in his ears. Between the rushing pulses of the two men, Sylar could hear nothing else. He reached for Peter’s hand, pulling him gently off the couch and into a passionate embrace. An indefinite moment passed, all harsh breath and searching hands, before Sylar took the lead and guided Peter to the bedroom, shutting the door behind him.

Mohinder was left in silence and darkness, wet fabric clinging to his oversensitized skin, mind racing to process the images he had just seen, and the images of what would undoubtedly be occurring behind his closed door in mere moments. He was disgusted with himself, with his reaction, with his inability to help the young man now unwittingly trapped in the spider’s web.

The door cracked open, spilling a narrow shaft of yellow light into the room. He heard his own voice speak; a mockery of gentleness.

“I’ll be right back, okay? I just have to lock up.” And then a darker note, belying the man behind it. “Don’t move.”

Bare feet padded softly across the rug. Mohinder felt the strain on his limbs ease, and he sagged forward, hands covering his face. Then a rough hand forced his chin up, and it was a strange mirror again as Sylar bent to kiss him aggressively, harsh tongue invading him; carrying with it a strange sweet flavor. He kissed back, forcefully, wanting to take some measure of control over this bizarre event. Sylar laughed into his mouth, and pulled away.

“Just thought you’d like to know what he tastes like.” He purred, turning back towards the bedroom. He threw something lazily over his shoulder, and a hand towel landed in Mohinder’s lap. “Don’t say I never did you any favors.” And the door shut behind him.

Mohinder raised a shaking hand to his lips. The fair skin was so strange to him, but comforting in the most disturbing ways. As the sounds of soft moans filtered in from the bedroom, he clutched the towel tightly.

It was going to be a very long night.


End file.
